


I Can Carry You

by blanketed_in_stars



Series: 52 Weeks of Wolfstar [34]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1995, M/M, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Wands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:20:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4704215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanketed_in_stars/pseuds/blanketed_in_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus wraps his arms around Sirius from behind, before he has a chance to pull away, resting his chin on Sirius’s shoulder. “You are not a burden, Sirius, you—“</p><p>“I can’t levitate books,” Sirius says, twisting out of his grasp. “I can’t even do that. What if I’ve—what if I’ve lost it somehow?”</p><p>“What do you mean?” Remus asks, rooted to the spot by the agonized expression on Sirius’s face. It crosses his mind that this has been a long time coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can Carry You

**Author's Note:**

> Week 34
> 
> Just a heads up, so everyone knows what they're getting into here— **this project won't include the Remus/Tonks relationship and is therefore canon-divergent from this point on.**

Remus scans the faces in the kitchen and finds that he recognizes most of them—Emmeline, Kingsley, Mad-Eye. He turns around and goes back up the stairs to the drawing room.

“I’ll be down in a second,” Sirius says when he comes in. “Just finishing my tea.” He wraps his hands around a mug.

“That’s full of dishwater,” Remus points out.

Sirius looks down. “Oh.” He smiles, but it looks more like a grimace. “You ought to try it, it’s quite good, actually.”

“Sirius.” Remus takes the mug and dumps it in a vase of flowers. “Just come to the meeting, why don’t you? It’s not going to be—I don’t know, stressful? It’ll be over before you know it.”

Sirius gazes into the vase in a forlorn sort of way. “I might suffer some kind of injury,” he says plaintively. “I could contract Spattergroit. I could _die.”_

“That didn’t work in third year,” Remus says, “and it won’t work now. Come on.” He takes Sirius’s hands and tugs him into the hall.

“Mundungus might actually have Spattergroit,” Sirius mutters, “he smells vile enough.”

Remus hushes him as they creep past the portrait. It turns out to be unnecessary, however, as a second later, the front door bangs open and someone shouts, “Sorry I’m late!”

 _“Mudbloods, dogs, insurgents conspiring in my house—”_ shrieks Mrs. Black, but Remus, who expects it this time, yanks the curtains closed before she can continue.

“Sorry,” whispers the latecomer again. Remus turns and sees a young woman with incredibly purple hair staring at the portrait. “Nobody told me there was a banshee guarding the place.”

Remus glances at Sirius, but he just snorts and grins. “Her bark’s worse than her bite, these days,” he says, “if you can get past the slurs.” He squints. “You look familiar. Do we know each other?”

The woman shrugs, holding out a hand. “I’m Tonks,” she says. “Sorry, but—you’re Sirius Black, right?”

Sirius gives her a wry smile as he shakes her hand. “That’s me.” He doesn’t appear as uncomfortable as he would, Remus thinks, if anyone less unassuming had asked.

 _Tonks,_ he thinks, and a memory flashes through his mind—a photograph of a young girl, Andromeda’s cascading laughter. “Nymphadora Tonks?” he says out loud.

Tonks throws him a look of faint disgust. “Just Tonks, thanks,” she says coolly. “You must know my mother.”

Remus nods, but before he can introduce himself—

“Oh, you’re that Lupin bloke!” Tonks grins at him, far friendlier than before.

There’s a cough from the end of the hall. It’s Moody. “If you’re all done waking the dead,” he growls, “you might not miss everything.”

Tonks’s hair darkens a few shades, but she rolls her eyes and follows him in good humor.

Remus tightens his grip on Sirius’s hand, thinking that he might seize the opportunity to escape back into the kitchen. “Just come to this one meeting,” he presses, “and if for some reason you don’t like it, then next time you can stay with all the kids until we’re finished.” That sounds a bit harsh. “You’ll want to be in on it today, anyways,” he adds, trying to soften his words. “We’re working on the plan to go get Harry.”

Sirius gives him a look that’s half interest and half irritation. “Up with the kids?” he repeats, starting down the stairs. “Really, Moony?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.” Now Sirius looks more embarrassed than anything else. But he shakes his head when Remus tries to reply, and takes a seat in the back of the kitchen, covered by Mundungus’s shadow.

“Floo powder isn’t an option,” Arthur Weasley is saying. “They haven’t got a real fireplace; it’s eclectic.”

“Not to mention Miriam Edgecombe’s been enforcing all the new measures,” Elphias Doge adds. “The Floo Network’s being monitored everywhere now.”

“I still think we could do Side-Along Apparition.” Emmeline places both hands on the table. “There’s little enough risk if we think things through. I—“

Sirius turns to Remus as Arthur responds. “Does any of this have a real point?” he asks quietly. “I don’t recall Dumbledore ever mentioning a date.”

“He didn’t,” Remus admits. “It’s better to be prepared, though, don’t you think?”

“Not if the circumstances change, and they probably will.” Sirius crosses his arms. “What I want to know is, why wasn’t he brought straight to us once the holidays started? Or at least once we established headquarters?”

Remus shrugs. “You think either of us are fit to take care of a fifteen-year-old?”

“I mean it,” Sirius says. “Why not?”

Both Hestia Jones and Moody are giving them rather impatient looks, so Remus sighs and goes back upstairs, gesturing for Sirius to follow. They sit in the drawing room and Sirius spreads himself over the big leather armchair, his legs over one side.

“So,” he says, “why not?”

“Dumbledore said something years ago,” Remus says, “when I tried to make him let me take care of Harry.” He smiles ruefully at Sirius’s raised eyebrows. “I didn’t try very hard, unfortunately. My point is, he told me it was crucial that Harry stayed with blood relatives. He wouldn’t explain, but I imagine that’s what’s going on now.”

Sirius frowns. “That’s a rubbish excuse.”

“I don’t disagree.” He notes the dirt on the bottom of Sirius’s shoes. “Put your feet down, would you? We only just got the cleaning spells to stick.”

Sirius swings his legs around to sit normally, scowling. “My mum used to harp on about that,” he says. “I was looking forward to relaxing in this house without being policed.”

“Then tell me to stick it up my arse and stop giving you orders,” Remus suggests. “You’re in your thirties; you’re allowed.”

There’s a slight pause while Sirius contemplates that. “I don’t feel allowed,” he says, “not here.”

Suddenly, Remus can see him as he hasn’t in a long time. Twelve years old, a fiery boy with the wrong friends. Sixteen years old and a mess of wild eyes and bruises. The background doesn’t change: it’s this room, the chandelier, the shadows. He looks again at Sirius and thinks that he blends in too well with the gloom. “I know why you didn’t want to come to the meeting,” he says quietly.

“Why’s that?” Sirius asks in a testy voice.

Remus knows he ought to shut up. More and more often he seems to be putting his foot in his mouth. “You want to rescue Harry yourself,” he says anyway. “It’s frustrating that you can’t.”

Sirius snorts. “Thanks, Einstein. Got any other brilliant insights?”

“I’m sorry,” Remus says. He leans forward, meaning to put a hand on Sirius’s knee, but Sirius puts his feet back up on the leather just as he reaches out, so he wipes a drop of cold tea from the vase instead. “I don’t know why I—sorry.” He sits back, defeated. “I don’t know how to help.”

As before, most of the vexation in Sirius’s expression vanishes to be replaced by something like guilt. “’S’not your job to help,” he mutters. For just a moment, his face pinches. “How am I useful, in retrieving Harry or anything else?” he asks, and it seems as if he’s only half talking to Remus. “I haven’t even got a wand.”

“Here’s that problem solved,” says a deep voice from the doorway. Kingsley moves farther into the room while Remus and Sirius quickly get to their feet. He reaches into his robes. “It took a bit of finagling and a considerable amount of luck, but here you are.” He holds out a wand—Remus recognizes it immediately as Sirius’s. “Thirteen inches, chestnut, unicorn hair?”

“Lively,” Sirius adds, nodding. He takes it eagerly and for a moment, the room warms a few degrees. _“Tergeo,”_ he says, pointing the wand at the chair. The dirt vanishes. Immediately, Sirius turns to the family tapestry. _”Sticianus.”_

“Must be a Permanent Sticking Charm on the back,” Remus remarks when nothing happens.

“Must be,” Sirius agrees, but there’s something off about his tone. “Thanks,” he says to Kingsley, and although it sounds heartfelt, he smiles, and there’s something off about that, too. After Kingsley leaves the room, Sirius wastes no time in dropping his wand on the table.

“Sirius, you know the tapestry won’t come down—we tried it the day after we got here, remember?” Remus nudges the wand closer to Sirius. “I don’t know why you thought it would be different this time. Try something else.”

Sirius throws a rather unpleasant look in his direction, but picks up his wand again. “What would you like me to do?” he asks.

Remus glances around the room. “Er… dust the top of the bookshelf?”

“I don’t know the incantation,” Sirius snaps.

“Well,” Remus says, impatience creeping into his tone against his will, “what do you know?”

Sirius runs one hand through his hair, which still reaches his elbows, and waves his wand almost lazily at the stack of moldering books on the top shelf. They tremble a moment before tipping over to sprawl on the floor, spines cracking, mice-bitten pages wafting gently down in the aftermath.

Remus picks up a page that lands a few inches from his foot. “Chapter thirty-five,” he reads, “Pure Bloodlines of Medieval France. Sounds boring. Good idea, ruining them.”

A moment passes before Sirius speaks. “I was trying to levitate them over to the table,” he whispers.

“All the same, we’re well rid of these,” Remus says before he pauses to think that perhaps it’s not what Sirius wants to hear. He drops the page and leaves the books where they lie, walking over to Sirius. He reaches out towards Sirius’s shoulder, but as before, Sirius turns away.

Remus stops, trying not to be cross, with his arm still outstretched. “What is it?”

“I’m trying, Moony,” Sirius says, sounding strangled. “I don’t want to be—like this—all the time.”

“Like what?”

It takes Sirius half a minute to find his voice again. “Like a burden,” he says at last. It’s almost inaudible. “For everything, and for being upset about it.”

Remus wraps his arms around Sirius from behind, before he has a chance to pull away, resting his chin on Sirius’s shoulder. “You are not a burden, Sirius, you—“

“I can’t levitate books,” Sirius says, twisting out of his grasp. “I can’t even do that. What if I’ve—what if I’ve lost it somehow?”

“What do you mean?” Remus asks, rooted to the spot by the agonized expression on Sirius’s face. It crosses his mind that this has been a long time coming.

“Magic, Remus! Magic!” The chandelier tinkles in an invisible wind, but Sirius pays it no mind. “Half the people in Azkaban are worse than Squibs once they get out. That place takes everything from you. What if that’s what’s happened to me? What if it doesn’t matter whether or not I’ve got a wand,” Sirius frets, “because I’ll never be able to do more than get rid of some dirt?”

“Stop,” Remus says, louder than he intends. This has to stop. “Just calm down.” But Sirius is at the center of his own storm, hands shaking, cheeks highly colored, the wallpaper tearing behind him. Remus is faintly aware that there is someone in the doorway, and Mrs. Black is screaming from downstairs. He will deal with all of that later. “Sirius,” he cries, “Sirius, stop!” But he knows words are useless now. He shouts the first spell that comes to mind and Sirius’s limbs snap together; he topples backwards to lie facing the stained ceiling.

“Sorry,” Remus mutters, but he notices that the wind has stopped and the wallpaper is no longer ripping itself to shreds. He hurries forward and kneels beside Sirius. “Will you be reasonable now?” he asks.

Sirius stares upwards.

 _”Finite Incantatem,”_ Remus says hastily, maintaining a tight hold on Sirius’s arm.

Sirius doesn’t struggle, won’t even meet his eyes. “Thanks,” he mutters.

“Sirius, _listen to me.”_ Remus waits until he looks around. “The only reason you couldn’t levitate the books is because you’re out of practice,” he tells him. “And if, somehow, it doesn’t get better…” He sighs. “You’re really an idiot sometimes, Pads.” Sirius gives a huff of surprise. “You think you’re useless? You can turn into a dog.” He pulls Sirius into a sitting position. “That’s got to count for something, right?”

He isn’t sure what he expects—silence, perhaps, or another angry retort. Certainly not Sirius’s lips hard on his own, fingers twining in his hair. Once again, the room grows warmer.

Sirius pulls back and his eyes are wide. “Moony,” he breathes, “have I ever told you how grateful I am for you?”

Remus says something, he isn’t sure what, it hardly seems important, and kisses Sirius again. He sees a head of purple hair duck away down the hall and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the books have gathered themselves into a pile.

**Author's Note:**

> "And if the song were full of care,  
> He breathed the spirit of the song;  
> And if the words were sweet and strong  
> He set his royal signet there;"
> 
> — _In Memoriam_ by Alfred Tennyson


End file.
